


You Had Time To Waste (And I'm Not Sorry)

by matchka



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Arthur works as a hitman for Saito. Eames does Cobb's dirty work. It just so happens that they have the same target, and neither is about to back down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Had Time To Waste (And I'm Not Sorry)

Some moments are made to be savoured, to be enjoyed with all five senses, and Arthur thinks this is one of them.

They have been frozen in this tableaux for what might be minutes, or hours, but is more likely to be seconds, each one suspended in time through sheer adrenaline. Eames is sprawled out on his back, his arms pinioned to the floor by Arthur's knees. Arthur's gun is pressed into the hollow of Eames' throat, a centrepiece between elegant, sloping collarbones. Eames is smiling.

"You enjoy this, don't you?" he rasps; his voice is barely a whisper.

"Yes," Arthur replies, and pushes the muzzle hard against Eames' trachea. "I suppose I do."

This is how it starts.

Saito slides the photograph across the desk, and Arthur turns it over. It's a young man. He has high, arrogant cheekbones and the kind of doll-like blue eyes that Arthur does not care for. At a glance, he is perhaps thirty, well-dressed, a fairly typical example of Saito's standard target.

"This is your mark."

Arthur tucks the photo into his jacket pocket. "Details?"

Saito brings his fingers together, a neat pyramid, and peers at Arthur over the tips. "Robert Fischer," he says, and Arthur is none the wiser; perhaps one of Saito's obscure European business rivals, or maybe just an expensive rent boy threatening to go public. He looks the type, Arthur thinks. "He owes me a lot of money."

"I see," Arthur says. It doesn't seem to be one of Saito's standard 'bullet in the head' contracts. This pleases him; he finds those jobs unbearably boring.

"It is important you bring him to me alive," Saito continues. He gestures to the manila envelope on the table. "You'll find further information about the mark in the envelope."

"Why alive?" Arthur asks; it's not that he cares really, but it is useful to know how much damage one can expend on the mark – whether 'barely alive' is an acceptable state to deliver them in.

Saito purses his lips. "It's never a good idea to question my orders, Arthur," he says, and his tone is measured, his expression wary. Arthur's interest is piqued in the most minor of ways, and he fleetingly ponders the moral implications of spying on one's boss.

He slips the envelope into his briefcase. "How long do I have?"

Arthur watches as Saito muses over the question, as if this were a consideration he had not anticipated. His answer, as Arthur expects, is vague. "I would rather subtlety than haste in this instance. Just see that it's done soon."

He does not like the coyness with which Saito is approaching this hit, but he is right; it is not his place to question, and so he picks up his briefcase and heads for the one person who will be able to shed some light on this Fischer. He goes to see Yusuf.

"This boy is bad news."

Yusuf turns the photo sideways, as if the new angle will reveal fresh information. Arthur swats without malice at one of Yusuf's cats, who is trying to chew his shoelaces.

"How so?" Arthur asks. Yusuf's basement office smells of clove cigarettes and the faint odour of cat urine. It is dimly lit by a single lightbulb hanging on an exposed cord; everything is cast in yellow. Five cats stalk the room, semi-feral little beasts who seem to like only Yusuf, and stare with baleful eyes at intruders, daring them to get too close.

Yusuf squints intently at the photo for a moment longer. "Billionaire's son," he says. He sounds bored, as if billionaire's sons are an irritatingly common feature in the world of information brokering. "Rich kid with aspirations of one day inheriting Daddy's throne. Fischer-Morrow, a big player on the world stage."

"Doesn't sound too bad," Arthur says.

"It wouldn't be, if that was all there was to it," Yusuf replies. "But if the rumours are anything to go by, Fischer-Morrow are more than just another big corporation." He puts down the picture and settles on the edge of his desk. Almost immediately, a ragged tabby cat appears at his feet, affectionately headbutting his legs. "Arthur, if what I hear is true, this man is heir to a dream technology empire. Not only will he be one of the richest men in the world, he will have access to research and technology his competitors are only beginning to understand."

Arthur stares, for a short while, at the mess of corkscrew curls that sit atop Yusuf's head like a hat, and wonders where on earth he keeps the masses of illicit information he doles out on a daily basis. In all the years he has known Yusuf, the man has never been wrong.

"I hear on the grapevine that Dom Cobb has one of his men out looking for Fischer." Yusuf tells him. "That one's for free."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. Cobb is no businessman. His interest in Fischer is not professional. He is the kind of man who will shake your hand while he's shooting you in the kneecaps, and the kind of man who sends dangerous people to run his errands.

"You'd better be on your toes," Yusuf says, and lights another cigarette. The smoke drifts lazily upwards, forming a hazy ring around the lightbulb.

On the way home, Arthur takes the most obscure route he can think of, traversing the alleys as if they are a labyrinth.

Arthur is being followed.

Or at least, he thinks he is, because he has picked the same man out of the crowd in three different places now, and he has been quite deliberate in his abandonment of the mark. Arthur takes a sharp left and ducks into the public library, almost bumping into an old lady. She glares at him from behind plastic-rimmed glasses and he hastily apologises before heading into the Foreign Languages section.

It is the sort of library with long, tall rows and a small gap between the tops of the books and the shelves. Arthur pretends to rifle through the books, stopping occasionally to peer through the gap. There is nobody there, and he begins to feel faintly silly; a grown man, playing hide-and-seek among dank, dusty bookshelves.

"V našem lesu mnogo medvedej."

Arthur turns slowly.

The man standing at the end of the aisle, wearing a blue paisley shirt and a huge, shiteating grin, is the same man who has been tailing him for the best part of an hour. Arthur pretends he is not at all flustered and responds in a forced, polite tone.

"Excuse me?"

"I do apologise," the man replies; he speaks with a crisp English accent and smiles with slightly crooked teeth. "It's just that...I saw you browsing the Russian vocabulary and thought you might speak the language. I feel faintly ridiculous now."

"I see." Arthur casts a quick, cursory glance at the man; there are no obvious signs of weaponry, but that means very little – Arthur is adept at concealing firearms and he supposes any of Cobb's men would know how to hide a gun. The man is still smiling. It looks like he is trying hard not to laugh.

"You're the least subtle stalker I've had in quite some time," he says, flicking experimentally through the Russian phrasebook.

"I prefer the term 'stealth watcher'" the man replies, and in the corner of his eye Arthur sees him affect a mock-offended expression, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He seems almost too frivolous to be a danger, and yet there is something about him that puts Arthur instinctively on edge. The other man extends a hand. He has long fingers with wide, flat knuckles, boxer's hands. "I'm Eames, by the way," he says, as if they are meeting under the most normal of circumstances.

Arthur does not shake his hand. He pretends, for a while longer, to be engrossed in the phrasebook, and has almost mastered the phrase 'leave me alone' before Eames speaks again.

"Good luck with your Russian, Arthur" he says.

By the time Arthur has registered the use of his name, Eames has disappeared.

Arthur sees Eames everywhere, except that it never turns out to be him, and he is starting to worry that he is going mad.

He pursues Fischer as per instruction, following him in as subtle a way as he can manage. Fischer, for a billionaire's son, seems remarkably unobservant, and attends his various meetings with a flippancy Arthur would dearly love to kick him in the shins for.

At the present time, Fischer is drinking a latte from a tall paper cup, having just finished another of his business meetings (Arthur wonders whether Daddy Fischer would approve of his son discussing company business out loud in the middle of Starbucks) He is every bit as well-sculpted in reality as he was in his photo, and Arthur finds it no more appealing now. He has the sort of pale, glassy blue eyes that either mesmerise or terrify, depending on whether or not one finds his delicate countenance pleasing.

Arthur makes a brief note in his journal, and pretends to read the newspaper. He does not care at all for coffee, so he orders a green tea and sits in the cool September sunshine, savouring the warmth of the cup in his hands.

It is then that he hears, from his left, the distinctive sound of an Englishman cheerfully greeting another man.

He looks sharply up, somewhat bemused, and realises he'll blow his cover, so he peers carefully over his New York Times, and swears under his breath when he sees Eames, resplendent in a brown tweed jacket and mismatched trousers, taking the seat opposite Fischer. As he sits, he gives Arthur a quick wink, which must go unnoticed by Fischer, because he smiles broadly at Eames (or 'James Granger', as he introduces himself) engulfing Fischer's hand as he shakes it.

Arthur strains to catch snippets of their conversation, and from what he pieces together, it becomes apparent that Eames is masquerading as some sort of investor. There is vague talk of an upcoming trade convention in Paris, but Arthur cannot quite hear everything, and the details are lost in the ether, obscured by traffic and chatter. He pretends to be absorbed in the crossword, filling in the blank white squares with random letters.

Fischer makes his exit several minutes later, and he is barely out of sight when Eames moves over to Arthur's table, clutching a hot chocolate.

"I didn't think you'd be the crossword type," Eames says conversationally, sitting opposite Arthur. He folds his newspaper so Eames can't see the answers and stares impassively as he makes himself comfortable.

"Interesting observation. Particularly as you know next to nothing about me." Arthur watches as Eames pops the plastic lid off his hot chocolate. It is topped with a thick layer of whipped cream, and what appears to be chocolate sprinkles.

"It's quite simple," Eames responds, infuriatingly flippant. "You seem more of a Sudoku kind of man. Ordered, logical. Lacks the imagination required to complete a crossword."

"My imagination is perfect adequate, thank you." Arthur is aware that he sounds snappy, but he does not care; he just wants Eames to leave, preferably never to return, but the other man sips leisurely at his drink, staring over the rim at Arthur with unblinking green eyes.

"Haunting our mark from Starbucks to Starbucks is hardly the mark of a fertile imagination," he says matter-of-factly. There is a thin line of cream on his upper lip, and he licks it off, his tongue lingering just a little bit too long at the corners. The femininity of his mouth is slightly alarming. "Creativity is a boon in our line of work, Arthur."

He does not ask Eames how he knows his name. It's clearly what he wants – his smug smile is not at all subtle – but he won't play into this man's hands. "I'm intrigued, Mr Eames," he says instead, returning his stare. "Just what would a man like Dom Cobb want with someone like Robert Fischer?"

Eames seems willing to concede to his intelligence, if not his imagination. He drops the smug smile, and it occurs to Arthur that he is actually relatively attractive when he is not being insufferably arrogant. He pushes the thought out of his mind.

"A gentleman never tells," Eames replies cryptically. He gets to his feet. The dissonance of his brown jacket and blue trousers is far more jarring at close quarters. "It would be remiss of me to impose any further upon your tea-time, Arthur, so I shall take my leave. But do be careful." Eames leans down, unexpectedly graceful, so his lips are just shy of Arthur's ear, the warmth of him tangible and oddly pleasant. "It would be a terrible shame if I had to shoot you."

"I only wish I could return the sentiment" Arthur replies coldly. Eames draws away. For a moment, he looks almost wounded, his mouth turned into the slightest of frowns. It doesn't last. He turns, dropping his half-full cup of hot chocolate in the trash as he leaves. Arthur watches him depart, observing his broad-shouldered silhouette as it disappears into the crowd, and all he can think of is what a waste throwing that drink away was.

A little careful research and a few phone calls later, and Arthur has determined that Fischer will be flying to Paris in a few days to attend the annual trade convention. He is not giving any talks, which makes the small matter of kidnapping him much easier; it will be far simpler to explain away his absence.

Arthur makes another phone call and tries not to think of Eames' tongue running slowly across his lips.

Eames accosts him at the check-in desk. He doesn't know it's Eames, because all he can feel is something solid pressed against the small of his back, and the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with cologne as someone speaks against his ear.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you." That voice. Arthur imagines Eames' lips forming the words in excruciating slow motion. The gentle pressure against his spine increases, and he is tempted to ask Eames if that's a gun he's holding, or is he just pleased to see him?

"Let's keep this subtle," Eames says quietly, clapping his other hand on Arthur's shoulder, the gesture of an old friend. "Do exactly what I say, and I won't have to desecrate this lovely, lithe body of yours."

"So kind of you" Arthur replies tersely. They offer identical apologetic smiles to the check-in girl, who seems so distracted that Eames might have had the gun to Arthur's head and she would not have noticed. Eames leads Arthur towards the elevator, moving with the slow, easy gait of a man who has all the time in the world. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Eames asks, pressing the 'door close' button; the elevator lurches into life, humming quietly as it travels slowly downwards.

It is a little unnerving, being able to hear a man but not see him, and Arthur is slightly relieved when he sees Eames' reflection in the lift mirror. He is not smiling. He looks tense, his brow furrowed. He is dressed in a funereal black suit. Arthur thinks he prefers the paisley; he looks too sharp, too angular in black, his features severe and dangerous. His long fingers curl around Arthur's shoulder.

"Appear out of thin air," Arthur replies, and tries to ignore the gun pressing into the curve of his spine. It would be easy to make a grab for his own weapon, but Arthur prefers not to make a scene if it can be helped, and blood all over the elevator walls would take quite some explaining.

He allows Eames to lead him out into the parking lot. Their footsteps echo in stereo. The other man does not speak, and they walk past silent rows of parked cars, cast in unearthly colours by the fluorescent lights.

They stop at Arthur's car. How Eames knows it is Arthur's car is a mystery, but it is, and Eames sharply withdraws the gun. "Get in," he orders, and his tone is ice cold, devoid of his customary humour. It is quite unnerving.

Arthur slips into the driver's seat. Eames, surprisingly, does not follow. He stands outside, staring expectantly at Arthur, his hands shoved in his pockets. Suddenly Arthur understands why he is so tense, so on edge; he is letting him escape.

"If you get in my way again, I won't be quite so charitable" Eames says. He turns, heading back towards the lift. He has a job to do, after all. A pity it conflicts so heavily with Arthur's own objectives.

Arthur catches up with Eames as he sneaks through the fire exit.

He slips his belt through his trouser loops and reaches out, wrapping it around Eames' neck. The other man jerks violently back, surprised. He lets out a strangled, indignant yell and Arthur pulls hard. The leather slips through the buckle, cutting sharply into his flesh like a too-tight collar.

Arthur transfers the makeshift noose to one hand and snatches Eames' gun with the other. Eames chokes out a protest. He grasps at Arthur's arm with unsteady fingers.

"Shut up." Arthur yanks sharply on the noose. It's strange to see Eames so helpless, he thinks, savouring the panic in his wide-open eyes, the glimpse of crooked teeth behind parted lips. He jams the gun against Eames' abdomen, feeling the resistance of taut stomach muscles, the gentle give of soft skin and flesh. "Where is Fischer?"

"Honestly, Arthur," Eames wheezes, fighting for air. He is shorter than Arthur but broader, stronger, and the thick muscles of his neck strain against the black leather belt. "A little more...foreplay...before the main event?"

Arthur is still thinking of a response when Eames brings a knee sharply up into his groin, followed by a hard fist to the jaw, and his world goes momentarily black.

It doesn't last long. He is barely to the floor when the fuzz clears from his vision. He neatly avoids a well-timed kick that would have connected with his ribs. He feels like someone has set his testicles on fire. The mental image almost makes him chuckle. Eames towers above him, the belt still loosely looped around his neck. There are red welts tracing the smooth contours of his throat, and his chest moves in great heaves as he struggles for breath.

Arthur scrambles to his feet. He still has Eames' gun. The cold, sharp angles of the weapon feel alien beneath his fingers; he has never been a fan of firearms. They are too impersonal, too automatic. They take away the thrill of the fight. Nonetheless, he flicks off the safety and aims carefully at Eames' left knee.

"Keep perfectly still," he says. His voice is low and steady, despite the hollow ache low in his stomach and the rhythmic throb of his bruised jaw. Eames is perfectly motionless save for the perpetual motion of his eyes as he tries to manufacture a getaway plan.

Arthur is completely prepared when Eames leaps at him, fists bunched, and drives his shoulder low into Eames' stomach; they clash soundlessly in mid-air, and Eames falls to the floor, his back arching as he hits the cold stone. The air rushes from his lungs in one violent burst.

He has straddled Eames before he is even aware of his own actions. His knees pin Eames' forearms firmly to the ground. The warmth of him between his thighs is delicious.

Arthur pushes the muzzle into the concavity of Eames' throat, and the other man smirks in spite of himself, his lips spreading slowly outwards into a full half-moon. His crooked teeth, Arthur thinks, are so fucking infuriating, and he suppresses a sudden urge to slip the muzzle between those lips, to watch Eames choke on cold steel. He is not quite so sadistic.

"You enjoy this, don't you?" Eames says. It's not a question. He knows he is right; it is written all over Arthur's face, in the dark glimmer of his eyes, the fine thread of blood running from his mouth. Arthur smiles without warmth. His teeth flash white, like a fox caught at the kill.

"Yes," he replies, and Eames' breath catches as the gun presses hard against his throat. "I suppose I do."

There is a long moment in which they stay locked in motionless combat, punctuated beautifully by Eames' pained gasps, and the sleek curve of Arthur's exposed hipbones jutting just above his slack waistband. "You and I," Eames rasps, his voice barely audible, "are probably meant to be."

Arthur leans forward. The pressure from the gun is unbearable now. Eames' vision starts to blur at the edges, fading slowly to grey as Arthur's lips brush against his. Eames feels Arthur's tongue tracing the unsteady contours of his teeth, barely perceptible in the last threads of consciousness. He tastes blood, and knows it isn't his.

"Maybe we are," he says, and his lips are stained scarlet, a bloody slash.

He retrieves his belt and leaves Eames unconscious on the floor. He still has a job to do.


End file.
